


awaken ancient feelings

by wildcard_47



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: And Then Fluff To Cleanse Our Souls, Frottage, I Believe The Kids Call This Whump, I'm A Hurt/Comfort Whore, M/M, Not talking about our feelings, Wake-Up Sex, Yelling Our Feelings, angst angst angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-12 09:45:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17465168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/pseuds/wildcard_47
Summary: Written for the 2018 kinkmeme, prompt: "James won't use Francis' first name again after Carnivale...which Francis thinks is a sign that James despises him." One day, Francis notices something very strange.





	1. Chapter 1

It was only after the worst of Carnivale had passed that Francis noticed something very strange kept occurring.

Granted, the entire bloody expedition had been full of strange occurrences, even as far back as Beechey Island when Sir John was terrified they’d all got scurvy, yet they were practically drowning in lime water. But this was an occurrence so minor that it had taken Francis ages to see it, and weighed heavy on his mind the moment it registered.

James still referred to him by his full title, and no more.

Francis did not think the man had always been so particular about rank, but perhaps the _Erebus_ Captain was attempting to boost the men’s morale. With their first expedition commander tragically cut down by a mythic bear-beast, and the second barely recovered from Arctic malaria, or whatever story Edward and James had passed around, perhaps it was a belabored point to the remaining crew. Here is your true leader, hale and alert, ready to guide you through the polar night and onto Fort Resolute. Closing ranks whilst there was still time to generate decent feelings. Keeping the men’s heads focused on their work, as if nothing were amiss.

This was all well done, Francis decided, as he watched the other officers exit the latest all-hands meeting, and saw James bid each a thoughtful goodnight in turn. We’ll not repeat the stupid mistakes John Ross made on the march to Fury Beach. Or be stabbed in the back with an ice-axe due to lingering resentments between the officers and the seamen.

Little was the last to exit tonight, scrawling down one last notation on a scrap of paper as he and James conversed, which he then deposited into his pocket. James favored him with a tired, if very small smile, and put a friendly hand on the man’s shoulder before he departed.

“Thank you, Edward.”

_Well, I suppose it is my turn._

Francis stood, and stretched, and tried to budge the stiffness from his voice as he rounded the table. “Seems you two have got on well since my recovery.”

James pushed hair away from his face as he shifted in his seat. “Well. It is really no matter, you know. Until you were ill, the majority of the _Terrors_ and I had little chance to interact.”

“I suppose they shall be glad to get back to routes at long last.”

_As will you. You must be exhausted._

“Yes,” said James, with no hint that he had gleaned Francis’s true meaning, simply flat resignation. “You are probably right.”

“Are you turning in, then?” They’d spent weeks fussing over Francis’s health – for good reason – but now it seemed as if James was the one in dire need of rest. He seemed quite altered by the strain of command, perhaps even ill. “There is much that can wait till the morning, should you require a respite from your duties.”

Hearing this, James sat up immediately, as if he had just that moment regained a second wind. And even worse, he gave Francis the sort of false, hideous smile that he wore often at the beginning of their voyage.

“No, no. I shall likely be awake for several hours yet. Do you require anything in particular, sir?”

Francis felt the cheer slide from his own face as abruptly as if a pitcher of ice melt had been poured over his head. “No. I do not.”

“Ah.” James sat back in his chair slightly, though he did not relax even a whit. “Well, please send word if that should change. I am always at the ready, should you need me.”

They blinked at each other for a long few seconds before Francis grew weary of the stilted silence.

“I will – bid you goodnight, then,” he offered.

“It is getting late, yes,” said James, and stood up to his full height, buttoning his jacket before ringing the bell for Bridgens. “Goodnight, Captain. Travel well.”

Puzzled by such brusque manners, Francis barely managed to stutter out a goodnight before Bridgens packed him off to the Great Cabin, where his vaguely-dry slops now awaited him by the brazier.

It was in this whirligig period of idle chatter – as Bridgens good-naturedly rambled on about the latest books he had read, gave his best to Jopson and the other stewards, and ensured Francis and the other _Terrors_ were well fed and warm before they all set off – before Francis truly realized what had irked him.

James was not merely altered from exhaustion. He now acted cold toward Francis, even distant.

Worse, he seemed to be treating Francis the way Francis used to treat Sir John, with that mixture of begrudging respect and duty – yet ultimately distaste.

Why should James’ estimation of him have changed so quickly? What could possibly have happened?

 

##

 

He would've asked Tom Blanky, if the Yorkshireman was not still in _Erebus's_  sickbay and busy with much more important things, like learning how to walk on his newly-made leg. And so Francis turned to the only other person on this voyage he trusted completely.

“Jopson, did Captain Fitzjames visit while I was ill?”

Appearing tired, but still in decent enough spirits as he set down Francis’s dinner tray, Jopson pursed his mouth in thought for several seconds before he finally spoke. “Came over to talk to Edw – I mean, Little – with regularity. Spent some time in the officer’s mess, in the Great Cabin. Keeping up appearances and all that.”

“Course.”

“I suppose he could have visited you at some point once the worst had passed. Though I don’t remember a particular occasion. Why?”

“No reason. Just – trying to whittle out the latest,” said Francis, with as much good cheer as he could muster, though this response was not one he wanted to hear. “Or at least anything you’ve heard.”

“Oh, you know me, sir.” Jopson smiled at him again. “If I heard anything, I’d tell you first.”

Although his helpful demeanor was genuine, Francis noticed the way Thomas’s hands trembled, and how deep and dark the circles still were under his eyes, and felt nothing but sympathy for the lad. He had worked himself to the quick and got very little in return.

“Thomas. What would you say if I gave you the rest of the night off? Or – or perhaps more than that?”

Jopson squawked in an undignified way, nearly spilling water across the table. “But – sir!”

“You have done more than enough for me over the past few weeks.” Francis fixed him with a raised eyebrow that brooked no arguments. “And I'd like to reward you for it in some fashion.”

“Perhaps so, but Captain, I didn’t do it for – ”

“Easy, lad. I know you didn’t.” Even putting a hand to Jopson’s arm did not belay Francis’s worries, though it seemed to mollify the man’s anxiety. “Consider this a way for me to gift something back to you, hm? You could – sit down with Edward and John tonight. Read a bit of that novel that’s been gathering dust. Write a letter to your brother. Surely you could use an added moment on your own.”

“I – if you wish it, I suppose I could take a little time,” sighed Jopson, as if Francis were asking to yank out the remainder of his good teeth and not attempting – in his own way – to help ease the lad’s burden at long last. “At least let me take your tray first. Fetch you some tea or coffee for after dinner.”

When Francis passed by the officer’s mess, not more than three-quarters of an hour later, Jopson was fast asleep at the table with his head down on his arms. Edward and Hodgson, who were in the midst of playing cards, just gave their Captain a wry glance as he passed.

Later, as Francis undressed himself for the first time in ages, and crawled into bed, he reflected on the steward’s dispiriting words.

_I suppose he could have visited. But I don’t remember it._

Dispelling the logical theory that Francis had brutally insulted or perhaps even injured James during his long illness.

Damn it.

 

##

 

“We shall have to address the matter of personal items, as well.” Francis scrubbed at aching eyes as he turned over the latest papers to his Second. “I’ve allotted each man the space of a half rack, same as they should have aboard. Weight undetermined, for now.”

James’s eyes flicked to his only briefly, and just as quickly returned to the list of provisions. His response was muted indeed. “If you think that is wise, then so it shall be.”

Francis did not appreciate such reticence – and it was unprecedented now, even from a man who had once been said to lick Sir John's boots. “Do _you_ think such a decision is wise?”

James smiled in a very thin, half-hearted way. “It is not my place to comment. I am not the man who shall be pulling those particular sledges.”

“So you believe we should ask them to give up more?” Although he tried not to show it, Francis was ready for an argument at long last. Yes, it would be brutal to ask the men to give up so much of themselves right from the start. But was having them do this after the first few miles not better than the alternative? “Despite the difficulty?”

“As I said, I have not truly formed an opinion on the matter.” Rising, James drained the last of his coffee from his cup. “But please inform me as to your final verdict once you have it, so that both ships may be in accord.”

This was a response so curt and unlike Fitzjames that it caused Francis to put down his papers, and study the man more carefully.

“Are you quite all right this morning?”

_You seem… not like yourself._

“Never better, though I thank you for inquiring,” came the immediate answer. “And I should like to be dismissed, if you please. Mister Diggle has promised me a fresh count of all the tinned provisions by three bells, which will be necessary before our work begins in earnest.”

“I – well – yes.” Francis was helpless to countermand such a needful request, even if it puzzled and annoyed him to be spoken to so formally. “Dismiss.”

 

##

 

As the days passed, and then a week, and then two, James’s icy demeanor showed no signs of thawing. Francis sought in vain to tally the number of times he had been rude to his Second within the man’s hearing. Perhaps he was nursing an old wound, then, and not one fresh within memory.

Sadly, there were far too many examples of past rudeness to name; by the time Francis had racked up enough instances of vocal disrespect to put the ships in Baffin Bay, each insult and snide remark blurred together in a whirl of jealousy and whiskey and ill-concealed rage.

Damn it again.

At this rate, he’d be better off trying to count every drop of water in the ocean.

Pacing the Great Cabin, he racked his mind for any possible reason for this sea change. Of course he had behaved abominably toward James in the beginning. He had spoken ill of him to anyone who might listen. But surely ill words alone would not prompt such a steep reversal of accord? James had to have known about much of that folly already.

Whatever the reason, it was beginning to eat at Francis’s mind, particularly when contrasted with James’s behavior toward the other officers.

Francis even came early to the next meeting in hopes of catching James alone, but instead found the _Erebus_ Captain conversing fully with Irving, of all people – Irving, who had once waxed rhapsodic about watercolors to the full company of officers for ten excruciating minutes _._ And James now held court with the man as buoyantly as if he were the most interesting person ever to appear in the Arctic!

“Of course I do appreciate the nuances and additional hues brought out by the paints, but it is a bit of a sticky wicket with regards to the drying time, or so it is said.”

And here Irving sat, blithe and moon-eyed and letting James ramble on about bloody _paint drying_ when there were more important questions to be asked. (Why should the timing be important? Which _friend_ is it who told you these facts again? What on earth caused you to develop such fixed opinions on artists’ mediums?)

“That is very true,” enthused Irving. “It does take time.”

In this moment, Francis hated them both, but swallowed every last shred of pride in an attempt not to show it, and to seem friendly.

“Good morning.”

“Morning, sir.”

“Captain Crozier,” was all James said, glancing over as if Francis’s arrival were no more interesting than the arrival of a ship’s boy to Divine Service. “You’re rather early today.”

“Yes. I, er, rose earlier than usual. No point in delaying.”

He was trying not to appear too eager, but apparently this had been misconstrued for reticence, as Irving glanced between them, seemed not to notice the awkwardness which had now settled in the air, and happily carried on talking.

“Such a blessed time for reflection. I often use the hour to compose devotional portraits.”

Unable to growl out the sort of remark that once came easy to his lips as a foul-tempered drunkard, Francis gave James a silent, helpless look when the lad’s back was turned. _Please do not make me listen to a full account of Irving’s god-damned devotional portraits._

Fitzjames did not even react to this obvious plea for help. It was as if Francis himself was not in the room. Instead, the man’s gaze slid back to Irving, and he turned his full attention on the man, steepling his hands together in front of him as if amateurish religious art had suddenly become the most interesting topic in the bloody world.

“How very inspired. Tell me, Lieutenant, what have you composed most recently?”

Damn him.

As Irving talked, Francis went to his usual place at the other end of the table, piled his gloves in front of him, and tried to pretend there was something very important amid the charts that needed studying.

He would not look over at Fitzjames right now. He would not, because their conversation did not include him, and it would not due to appear overeager. If he felt personally slighted by such treatment, so be it. Feeling slighted was for boys, not a goddamned Navy man. And there was not time to dwell on such idiocies, anyway.

If his Second no longer wished to converse with his Captain apart from professional matters, then that would be the way of it.

 

##

 

No. He wasn’t going to bloody fucking accept this lying down.

Perhaps James now hated him because he had so strained everyone’s time and resources. Had taken the man for granted. Even the most sympathetic and productive person might develop a grudge after being overworked for so many weeks. Or months. Years, really. In truth, his Second had carried the bulk of this expedition alone for too long.

Arriving on _Erebus_ perhaps an hour after the supper bell, Francis found the Great Cabin empty, which was ideal. Next, he made his way to his true destination – the officers’ quarters – in search of a specific person.

“Captain Crozier.” At the small round table in one corner, halfway through his portion of hot biscuits, Le Vesconte appeared stunned to see their leader in the officers’ compartments, and immediately sat up from his vaguely slumped position. “What brings you to the flagship this evening?”

“Well, I, ah, had some pressing duties aboard. Thought I ought to drop in, say hello to the wardroom.”

Le Vesconte’s voice did not betray skepticism at this excuse, but the slight downward twitch of his whiskered mouth did. “Oh, I see. Well.”

Francis could not fault him for being so surprised. They’d perhaps had one other conversation that did not involve the running of the ships, and it had involved he and Blanky – however briefly – trying to convince a clueless Fitzjames that there were penguins in the Arctic. It had not gone well. “How – how fares the work today?”

“Fine enough.” The man put down the remainder of his biscuit, swiped his hands across his trousers. “Fitzjames, Des Voeux and I completed the last of _Erebus_ ’s inventories, and now we merely wait for confirmation from Fowler as to the profits and losses.”

“Yes,” said Francis. “Lieutenants Little and Irving await the same from Osmar. I am told he shall have ours completed within the week.”

“Good, good. Least we are all on the same page.”

“Mm.” Desperate for some small inroad, Francis wet his lips, steeled his courage. “I would also speak with you about a separate matter. Concerning – ”

“Is this about Fitzjames, sir?”

_Oh._

Francis felt something like relief course through his veins, until Le Vesconte kept speaking.

“He did a fine job as commander in your stead, you know. The men have nearly as much love for him as anyone.”

Although the Lieutenant did not come straight out and speak his mind, it was easy to intuit his true meaning. _The men love him more than they do you._

Which was probably an accurate assessment. Francis had never been considered likeable by any stretch of the imagination. And considering how few times he had come to _Erebus_ unless expressly summoned, it was likely even easier for them to esteem one of their own, who lived and breathed and smiled among them.

Even if he did not smile at Francis.

“I do not doubt it.” Francis inclined his head to show that he had seen the flash of the dagger. “Captain Fitzjames has a gift for inspiring camaraderie.”

“Well, it is very decent of you to come all this way to say so,” came a familiar voice from behind him; Francis turned to see James himself entering the cabin, in nothing but his trousers and shirtsleeves. Neatly, he slipped past Francis in order to stand next to Le Vesconte’s chair.  “Though I do not believe it is your primary purpose for calling. How may we be of service, Captain Crozier?”

_You can stop bloody speaking to me as if I am the most hated person on this ship. You could look me in the eye when you pass by in a small room._

“As I was saying to the Lieutenant, this was merely a social call following some pressing duties. If you will excuse me, I believe I am expected back on _Terror_ within the hour _._ ”

“Of course,” Fitzjames answered, after a slight pause. “Travel well, then.”

Francis had no answer to this repeated taunt, and so he merely departed without another word.

 

##

 

Once aboard _Terror,_ Francis shucked off his slops and hung them on the nearest nail; although he was surprised not to see Genge or Jopson at the ready, it was likely for the best. He was not in the mood for company.

As he walked down the orlop and to the Great Cabin, he noticed the door to the officers’ mess was ajar, and heard two voices within. Little and Jopson.

A lit lamp was visible on the sideboard, and cast a soft glow over the room. Nearby, the two men stood less than a meter apart, staring down at the full collection of dishes and silverware, laid out neatly across the length of the table.

Francis caught the last part of Jopson’s current sentence as he peered in through the slight crack in the door.

“... strange to think we’re leaving it all behind, after three years.”

“Well.” Little scratched at his beard. “Not all of it. Still have to eat and drink, obviously.”

“No. I know what you mean.” Jopson wrapped both arms around his own middle, let out a deep breath. “Just… hard to let go of my own reservations. I keep dwelling on the very worst outcomes. Even in dreams.”

Francis had gone so far as to lift his hand to the door before he realized it was not comradely encouragement they were after; without another word, Edward turned, stepped closer, and cupped Thomas’s face in both hands, drawing one work-worn thumb across the steward’s apple cheek and up to his temple, in a motion so easy it was clear this was not the first time they had sought comfort in each other.

“It’ll be all right, Thomas.”

Jopson closed his eyes. One hand came up to grasp at Little’s wrist. “Edward…”

“It will. You’ll see.” A huff of breath. “Captain will lead us home, won’t he? He knows the terrain better than London itself. You have said so a thousand times.”

“I know.” Jopson did not open his eyes. “I’m still frightened.”

Drawing back before he could be spotted, Francis crept the remaining distance to the Great Cabin and shut the door behind him, now acutely aware why this business with James left him so damned disheartened.

He did not merely desire his Second’s admiration or respect.

No, Francis wanted something far more personal. Understanding – friendship – genuine regard.

Together, he and James alone carried a unique burden: the loss of Sir John, the running of their ships, the livelihood of their remaining company. No man on this expedition could fathom such responsibilities, or know how impossibly isolated it left them in comparison to the other officers.

As Captains, they held over a hundred lives in their hands – men who were counting on their leaders to take them on an impossible journey. Men who would needlessly waste away from scurvy and starvation far before they saw Fort Resolute, let alone the hills and dales of merry old England.

Men who would soon suffer and die for no reason at all. Comrades. Friends. Brothers. Death was heartless and capricious, and would not distinguish between one or the other. It would likely take them all, in the end.

And for whatever reason, James would not even acknowledge the back-breaking weight of such an arduous task. He would not share his reservations nor his candid thoughts with the only other person who might understand that burden.

He offered not so much as a word of sympathy.

Once the company walked out, the two of them would be permanently yoked together amid such horrors. Each Captain would be thus condemned to make the journey without even the bolster of friendship or genuine accord.

Was Francis so vile a man that he did not deserve brotherhood or plainest compassion in their darkest hour?

His eyes stung and his head throbbed, and although there were many duties to attend to, he went into his berth and climbed into the bunk without another word to anyone.

 

##

 

“Captain Fitzjames?”

James glanced up, took in John Bridgens’ worried expression, and could hardly contort his face into a pleasant appearance in response, let alone an actual smile. “What is it?”

“Begging your pardon, but you have hardly touched your plate this evening. Are you certain you won’t see Doctor Goodsir?”

 _Oh._ James looked to his left, saw the grey mush on his dinner tray still gleaming under the lights of the Preston Patent Illuminators.

“No. In truth, I am simply not hungry.” He hid his face from view with both hands, ostensibly rubbing detritus from his brow. “Thank you.”

“Sir, you – you must be sure to take care of yourself in these next weeks,” came the soft reply. “Captain Crozier would not want you to – ”

James let out a derisive noise as he snapped his head up to glare at the steward. “Then I suppose the Captain shall have to come and order me to eat my damned portion, won’t he?”

Bridgens did not reply. Christ almighty. James felt shame sink into every pore of his body as he took in the steward’s tense, hesitant posture. As confident as a frightened rabbit.

He groaned out a sigh, averted his gaze. “I’m sorry, Bridgens. That was – badly done.”

The steward let out a breath, relaxed very slightly. “It’s all right, sir.”

“No,” said James dully. “No, it isn’t. I – in truth, I am – very out of sorts tonight. But of course that is no excuse.”

_Unlike me, you are a good man, and do not deserve anyone’s hatred. Even if I am a wastrel of a leader, there is no excuse for taking out such frustrations on others. I have only myself to blame for Francis’s disgust. I do not deserve care or attention. I remain unloved and alone no matter how much I might wish otherwise._

“Sir, I could bring you something from the infirmary to help you sleep,” Bridgens offered as he took up the tray. He left the water glass behind. “Would you prefer that to a brandy?”

What would James prefer? He could not say. He might prefer to be face-down in a fire hole with the remainder of Sir John than to face another empty, callous, friendless day in this hellish place. To see the faces of men he had once loved and respected reflecting only disappointment and distaste. To know he had hurt so many others who were not there to stare at him any longer.

“If it shall ease your mind, I will take it.”

“Very well, then,” murmured the steward, and departed at once.

 

##

 

With less than a fortnight to go until they planned to abandon ships, Francis had decided on the perfect strategy to unravel this awful mystery.

All right, fine. He was going to walk over and scratch at Fitzjames until the man bloody well shouted at him, or until they struck each other like brawling ship’s boys, or did anything else apart from observe the niceties and button their jackets and pretend nothing had happened.

It was the empty silence he could no longer stand.

So, when he knocked on the door of _Erebus’s_ Great Cabin late that night, having walked over on his own with barely a word to anyone on _Terror,_ and got no answer, he was already rather insensible – enough to barge into the room without having been invited.

In one corner, John Bridgens had just stoked up the brazier; he straightened up so quickly a stray piece of coal fell from the bucket and skittered around the hardwood.

At the table, James sat alone with his head propped on one elbow, with nothing save a full dinner tray and a glass of water. Neither had been touched, although supper had started hours ago. The water was nearly frozen through.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Francis snapped first.

His Second turned, and bolted upright.

“Captain, I – I don’t know what you mean.” James cast a shocked look at him and then at Bridgens. Judging by the horrified gawp on the old steward’s face, and the way he stepped quickly backwards, Bridgens wished to dissolve into the space between the bookshelves and the brazier. “Has something happened on _Terror_?”

“No, it bloody well hasn't!” Francis met Bridgens’ gaze head on. “See that we are not disturbed.”

An uneasy gleam came into James’s eyes as the door to the Great Cabin opened and closed, and they were finally alone at last.

Although Francis had rehearsed this conversation in his head many times, he was not exactly sure where to begin now that James stood directly in front of him.

“This is between us,” he said first, and removed his coat. “A personal matter – and I’ll be put off about it no longer.”

James did not bat an eyelash. “I fail to see what you are implying, sir.”

“Of course you bloody well do!” Saying the words aloud, Francis could feel the anger building in his voice, and expanding in his chest. “For god’s sake, man, I am tired of these endless games, and I refuse to spend the last remaining days on our ships locked in some – idiot feud!”

“Rest assured I am not feuding with you, Captain.” Very slowly, James put up his hands, as if surrendering. “Merely showing you the deference you are deserved, as befits your rank.”

“Well – stop it!”

“What?”

“Stop – treating me like I’m Sir John Franklin! Stop speaking to me like we are bloody strangers in the middle of the street!”

James did a double-take. “Good Christ. Are you gone mad?”

“If I am, it is because you have driven me to it!” On impulse, Francis kicked at a chair, and remained unsatisfied when all it did was scoot a few centimeters across the frozen floor. “Tell me the truth. Why do you persist in such coldness?”

James’s hands trembled, though still he straightened his spine as he folded them behind his back. “My behavior reflects no coldness, sir. As your Second, I am honor-bound to assist in all matters, and to – to ensure – ”

“Stop speaking to me as my goddamned Second! I do not _need_ a goddamned commissioned officer to read me the fucking ship’s manifest!” Francis spat. In a fit of pique, he took one of James’s empty teacups from the nearby set and smashed it against the hardwood, causing James to startle visibly. _“Look at me!”_

Fitzjames did, though he swallowed hard once they locked eyes. He had the wild, anxious look of a maltreated animal. “Have you been drinking?”

Francis recoiled. “No, goddamn you! There’s no buggering whiskey left to drink – ”

“We still have gin. Brandy. Even vodka – ”

“And I’d sooner put a bullet through my fucking temple than become a stinking gin-drunk like my fucking father!”

“You – ” and Fitzjames’s eyes flashed with renewed fear. “Clearly I have overstepped. For that I am sorry.”

“I don’t want your damned apologies!” Next, Francis picked up the saucer, and tossed it into the wall, where it ricocheted in pieces around the brazier and the bookshelf. “Christ almighty – I want you to look me directly in the eyes and tell me why you have done this. I want you to list, in the starkest detail, any crimes I may have ever committed against your person so that I do not spend what’s left of my miserable brutish life atoning for such petty bloody slights!”

During this tirade, Fitzjames had gone deathly pale; his breath now echoed through the room in shallow little gasps. He spake not a word to refute the charges leveled at him.

“And whilst I’ve still got breath in my lungs, I demand you tell me why –  _why_ – in our absolute lowest hour, with more of our men dying around us every day – you continue to persist in this abominable cruelty! For god’s sake, you do not even call me by my name. You hardly even look at me, let alone talk with me, and when you do it is as if I am made of stone. _I am not made of stone, goddamn it!_ ”

Although he still stood tall, Fitzjames’s body now shook visibly. “I know that. I do.”

“Then speak to me, man!” Francis pushed gloved hands through his hair in an attempt to keep from clenching them into fists. “If you require it, I will beseech you. I will implore you. If you have ever respected me in e’en the slightest, tell me what offense I have committed to merit this – unceasing loathing.”

His Second’s reply was so swift the words ran together in places, as if James could hardly gut them all out at once.

“You said I was too familiar.”

“What?”

“It was an order – that I was not to use your name un – unless – ”

“ _When did I ever fucking order that?_ ” Francis did not realise he was on the verge of tears till the first one had sluiced a heated path down his cheek. His voice dwindled to a whisper. “Jesus Christ, do you not – I have been so unbearably _lonely,_ James.” He had to avert his gaze for a moment to gain a thread of control. “Tell me you have seen that much, because if you have not, I shall truly go mad.”

“Lonely?” James repeated in a floored whisper, as if this was beyond comprehension.

More tears pricked in Francis’s eyes. Oh, god – to be utterly unknown stung him to the quick. It was so much worse than merely being ignored.

“Am I even a man to you?” He took a shuddering breath; his voice hitched over the words. “Because – ” he felt like a child, a stupid idiot child mewling about some schoolyard tussle “ – tiresome I may be, and withdrawn, and not – not particularly interesting, now that I abstain from drink, but I do – have feelings.” He clenched his jaw to stay composed, and hated himself. “And you do not care. You have wounded me to the core, and you do not _care._ ”

Fitzjames flinched as hard as if he had been physically struck, and sank back into his seat, now gripping the back of the chair like a lifeline.

“Well?” demanded Francis. “Why should you hate me? What have I done?”

Caught up in his own overwhelming fury, Francis expected James to come back with some instant, biting retort – the same way their fights always played out. Usually, Francis said something ill-considered in the heat of anger, then James made him regret it, and they moved on from such follies.

But instead – instead! – when he glanced up at Francis, the _Erebus_ Captain’s expression crumpled like a ball of wet parchment. Pressing his face into his forearms and rocking forward in his seat, he let out a deep, wordless cry; the sound was so sharp and strangled it made all the hairs on the back of Francis’s neck stand on end. This raw, awful yawp, like the last howl of a dying dog, increased in pitch the longer it went on, till Francis was afraid the man had actually injured himself in the space of the last several seconds.

“James?”

Still hunched over, James’s open-mouthed wail finally broke upon the rocks: he began to sob so deeply Francis worried he might stop breathing entirely – first attempting to muffle the harsh cries in his sleeves, then giving up all sense of propriety and slumping to one side against the table, arms and legs akimbo, pressing his forehead against the table’s edge.

This violent torrent of tears ran so fierce Francis could see little drops of saltwater speckling James’s boots and the floor beneath his chair, could see wet strings of snot and saliva hanging past James’s nose and chin and cheeks as he was wracked by great gasping sobs.

“Oh, no.” Horrified, Francis moved forward, sat down in the chair next to him, placing first one arm around the man’s shaking shoulders, then two, desperate to calm him. “No, no, no. Please don’t – I did not want you to – ”

His Second clung to him like a man half-drowned, wordlessly weeping in his embrace for several minutes before pulling back with another wretched cry.

“I’m a – a f - fucking _fool.”_

This was all he said before collapsing back into Francis’s arms, crying all the harder. Sitting with him, stroking his hair and his shoulders and vainly trying to ease the man’s agony, Francis felt the rage and embarrassment of the last few weeks slowly wither on the vine, as a wellspring of silent tears coursed freely down his own cheeks.

“‘’M – s – sorry,” James finally gasped, and lifted his head. “Only I – ” a wet, agonized noise, “ – thought you h - hated me.”

Francis’s mouth fell open. _“What?”_

“‘Cos ‘m a disgrace. Slaughtered g - good men, f - failed in my duties – of c - course I n - never de – deserved frien’ship – ” James pitched forward into Francis’s shoulder with another muffled howl. “Should jus’ die like th’mongrel I am.”

“Don’t you –  _dare_ – say that. It is not true!”

“‘M not fit t’be here,” James wept, pressing his hands to his face with another sob. “God damn it, ‘m – ” he choked on the words, “ – a fucking _fraud._ ”

“Bleeding Christ. Hang on. You – you have been distancing yourself all this time? Because you think me angry? Because you believe yourself hated? Jesus fucking Mary and bloody fucking Joseph.” He let out a growl, unable to summon up any more furor, only the deepest pity. “We’re both fools, then.”

Although he was still crying, James’s head snapped up in shock. “What?”

On an impulse, Francis seized him by both shoulders, so that the _Erebus_ Captain would have to meet his gaze. This done, he stared straight into James’s bloodshot eyes, registering all in starkest detail: his puffy face, the blotches of red which marred his cheeks and nose and chin, the sheen of water and snot left behind by the tears, as well as his still-quivering lip.

“James, I – in past, I have been jealous, and scorned you from our earliest acquaintance, but I do not hate you.” Francis took a deep breath. “Though your ebullience and your luck has always astounded me, in truth you are a fine and brilliant man. And a fine Second. I challenge the whole of the Admiralty to find even one better.”

“Francis,” James said thickly, as if preparing to interrupt.

Hearing his Christian name on his Second’s lips sent a rush of warm feeling into Francis’s stomach, and he squeezed the man’s shoulders all the tighter.

“Please wait. Even if you believe you have needlessly cost men their lives – I tell you that you have proven your worth in this place a thousand times over. While I abandoned my duties, you rose to the occasion. _You_ were the leader our men needed in a desperate hour. You strove to make sure they were safe, and well-fed, and happy. And you alone are not responsible for our losses. Not David Young, not Graham, not Sir John, nor anyone else. Do you understand me?”

James was still weeping, but not as fiercely as before. “But I – ”

“And I’ll not have you demean yourself any longer. Because you, James Fitzjames – ”

“‘S not even my real name,” whispered his Second in an agonized rasp, drawing one hand back up to his face.

Francis stopped talking, limbs stiffening in shock.

“‘M a bastard, Francis.” A sniff; he choked back a great gob of snot. “No more English than you are. Just the – unwanted product of a tawdry affair.”

He squeezed his eyes closed, but went on in a tremulous voice.

“My father – was a ridiculous man. Consul general in Brasil. Ruined himself with debts – with wealthy Portuguese women – of which my mother must have been one. His cousins found people to raise me. I was never told more.

Nothing awaits me on our return. Coningham, my actual father for all intents and purposes, is dead. William and Elizabeth have their own family by now. I mean, I have no one else in the world, Francis. Why else do you think I was so desperate to come here? To prove myself worthy?”

“I’ve – no idea,” whispered Francis. “James, I didn’t know any of that.”

“Yes, well.” A tremulous sniff. “You can’t possibly want to hear any more.”

“Tell me anything. Much as you want.”

James flashed him a skeptical frown.

“Please,” entreated Francis, and squeezed James’s shoulders again. “Please speak to me, brother. Do not force me to witness such deep grief from a distance. I could not bear it.”

Slowly, after several seconds, James nodded his assent, and leaned into Francis’s shoulder before wrapping his arms tight around his upper back.

Francis returned this embrace; they sat unmoving for minutes more, until Francis realized that the shoulder of his jacket was fully soaked through with tears. Ice would form there if they were not careful.

And then, blindly, he fumbled for James’s hand, pulled him to his feet. “Come here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Weezer's "Say It Ain't So," because why not toss in a bunch of dad-feelings to this mix of awkward love?


	2. Chapter 2

Dazed from weeping, James obeyed the wordless command of Francis's hand in his, and allowed himself to be led first to the pitcher and basin.

Here, Francis poured a bit of clean water onto a sponge, squeezed out the excess, and immediately reached over to swipe at James’s forehead and eyes, then his cheeks and nose, then his chin, and then his neck and arms, moving the sponge in slow and careful circles till his face was scrubbed clean of muck.

“‘S like I’m a child,” James said dully, as Francis put down the sponge at last, and squeezed the dirt from it.

“Well, I have not done this for any children, so I wouldn’t know.”

And no one had ever done such a thing for James, even when he was a boy. Still, Francis continued to pet him in this manner – giving him the handkerchief from his own pocket so that James could blow his nose at last – even washing off his hands and neck and arms once James had taken off his coat and vest.

After this was done, and both articles hung on the back of a chair, Francis led James to his berth, and rustled around in the drawers till he produced a clean nightshirt.

“Here. Change into this.”

Thoughtlessly, James did so, removing his other clothes and pulling on the shirt from muscle memory alone, but once this was done, a new pulse of fear gripped him as he saw Francis turn slightly away. As if he were about to leave.

He reached out to grasp Francis’s wrist before the man could walk off. “Don’t go.”

A pause; Francis turned back to him, and covered James’s hand with his. “Even to get you a headache powder?”

Oh. Damn it.

James could not even remember saying he needed one, or that his head hurt, except it was positively splitting, and his throat burned raw from weeping.

“All right.”

Even the few seconds Francis was gone felt like an eternity.

James was so out of sorts he was still not certain if he had dreamed any or all of tonight’s events; he could wake up in the next few minutes and be faced with another unending period of misery. Pretending he did not need anything from Francis, or from his own officers, or from anyone in the world. Pretending he was less than human.

The door clicked open; Francis appeared with a coffee cup dangling from his fingers, the pitcher of water, and the promised headache powder. Quickly, he mixed up a dose and gave this to James, who shot it back in one go, then made one for himself, and did the same.

Afterwards, he set the cup aside, and urged James to sit on the edge of the bunk. “Here. You’re shivering. Get under the blankets.”

“Will you hold me again?” asked James, without ceremony. No point in pretending the gesture had not helped calm him. “Like before?”

“Er.” Francis glanced down at his uniform, which was still damp with the leavings of James’s earlier distress. “Yes. Let me just – take off my boots.”

He could take off as much or as little as he wanted, were it up to James. “Change into a nightshirt if you like. I have plenty.”

_I do not want you to go._

Sighing, Francis nodded, and began to undress. After hanging up his own coat on the desk chair, he put on the nightshirt, splashed some water on his own face before drying it off with one sleeve, and slowly crawled into bed next to him.

Although it was the first time they had shared the same bunk, let alone seen each other in less than their greatcoats, it felt almost natural for James to flatten himself toward the wall, allow Francis to scoot forward and curl up against James’s back. James made sure to tuck his knees up under him so they could both be comfortable.

After a minute or so of shuffling, he realized his earlier request had not been heeded. With a sinking heart, he wondered if he might have to ask it a second time.

But then – oh, thank Christ – two strong arms slipped around him: one snaked between the pillow and his neck, while the other looped gently around his waist.

“Is that all right?” asked Francis, very tentative. “Or should we…”

“Yes, it’s – helping.” Letting out a breath, James shut his eyes, and willed his heartbeat to slow to normal levels. “Thank you.”

As always, Francis’s response was more practical than strictly necessary. “If you don’t want to talk, it is no matter. We shall simply lie here and rest.”

“I’m fine,” James said automatically, although he felt a tinge of the earlier despair settle in his chest at such a blatant lie. And judging by the snort of breath from Francis, it was not remotely believable. He amended this declaration. “Well. Not weeping like a widow, which I suppose is a slight improvement.”

No answer; merely the bare, quiet touch of Francis’s fingers tucking hair away from his face, before returning to their original position.

Now that he had begun, James felt honor-bound to continue talking – to tell Francis why he had lost his composure so completely. “Last few weeks have lain very heavy on me, obviously. Not just this, between us, but – all of it. Just as I thought I could wrap my head around one problem, three new awful incidents occurred. And everyone looked to me to solve them. They regarded me as strong and omnipotent, and yet they did not see how much I struggled. Well. In truth I strove not to let them see it.”

Francis did not speak yet, merely kept touching his hair.

“And I – ” good Christ, he was so close to admitting the unutterable. “Even before Carnivale, keeping faith has been – very difficult. More than you know.”

A sudden intake of breath from behind him; Francis’s fingers stopped moving through his hair. After another pause, he cleared his throat.

“Your scalp bleeds at the roots. Does it – does that hurt you?”

“Oh, _fuck_.”

James was unable to protest this revelation, and so he merely whined an unhappy noise at having been discovered out.

“I did not notice till we were at the basin,” Francis continued quietly. “One mark at your hairline, and blood in the water, after I squeezed out the sponge. And you have a – a second spot here, at the base of your skull.”

Wordlessly, James nodded. Yes. He had caught that perhaps a week ago.

Francis did not say the word, nor did he force James to put a name to this terrible omen. His voice stayed low and level, even as his fingers curled gently over a scab that pulled painfully at a large section of James’s roots.

“Is this the reason you pushed me aside?”

“No. Not really.” Sighing, James resettled his head against the pillow, causing Francis to shift slightly in turn. “Think Bridgens has sussed it out by now, although we've not discussed it. Just one more problem to be counted with all the rest. I did not want the company to know, nor anyone to worry.”

“You can rationally expect that I will worry about you, whatever happens. As well as your overall health.”

James made a face that Francis could not see. “That has been difficult to believe of late. But perhaps such silly thoughts shall pass.”

_The end of this fog would be very useful._

“Have you been melancholy before, James?” Francis now stroked idle circles into James’s left hip. “Thought I alone had the dubious honor there.”

“I do not know.” James considered the question for a moment. “Is this what melancholy is?”

_Caring about nothing and yet hating everything that does not go perfectly? Feeling utterly adrift?_

Francis’s response was careful. “Possibly. What is your experience of it?”

“Ennui more than any true – debility. If I have gone through it in past, I daresay I have not fallen quite so low before. But I do not know for certain. Looking back, I don’t believe I was prone to melancholy as a child. Certainly not while at sea. Perhaps being unable to set sail is all that truly ails me.”

He could hear the smile in Francis’s voice even before he spoke. “Well, then, by all means, look forward to the spring and the unbelievable thaw. I am told the leads should soon open up like the Thames after a hard rain.”

James let out a small snort.

“Yes. According to this map, which some ignorant person has made up wholecloth from nothing more than a whimsical dream, we will be in the Yupik by teatime and China by sunset.”

God, James wished this did not strike so close to comments he had actually voiced aloud to members of the Admiralty. “Don’t be absurd, Francis.”

“I am never absurd, thank you.”

The Irishman made an amused noise against James’s neck, before nosing into the fine hairs at the nape, and drawing in a deep, purposeful breath.

“Have I not washed properly?” Although James still ached all over from crying, his headache was dissipating, and his miasma of other complaints were more or less absent. Held in Francis’s arms this way, he was very nearly cheerful. “If the filth behind my ears is so dire, we can switch places.”

“Don’t you dare move a whit,” came the gruff command.

This reply hung soft and amused in the air, at first, and then settled as close around them as the half-frozen blankets.

“You cannot move.” Francis said again, quieter this time, and nuzzled at this same junction, pressing his forehead to the inch or so bare skin exposed just above his collar. “It’s all right to be afraid, James. That only makes you a man. But by God, we will not let it take you. There is time yet, and I intend to put every minute to good use. You have my word.”

James’s stomach clenched, and he shut his eyes against the rush of fear that settled in his gut. “Don’t believe we have much choice in the matter.”

_I don’t want to die._

“False.” Francis’s voice was too bright, but he did not burst into tears or stutter over his words as James might do, were the situations reversed. Instead, calmly, he reached up and took James’s hand, entwining their fingers together over James’s ribs. “We may not have luck nor the odds nor health on our side, but whoever said any of those things were necessary for you to come out on top?”

“Hmph. Young fool, perhaps?”

“No, James. I am quite certain your Tartar bullet,” and here, Francis pulled his hand away, and traced over the mark on his back, past the middle of his spine through his thin shirt, “did not inquire as to conditions on the _Cornwallis_ before it struck you in three places, hm?”

The touch, small as it was, burned like a brand.

“Would have found them rather sub-optimal,” was all James said.

“Exactly. Grisly battlefield surgery with Stanley at the helm, amid an outbreak of ague. Enemy at every turn. Only grog and hardtack to nourish you back to health. And to think, you still rose from your bed in less than five days. Only Lazarus has got you beat.”

“Many scholars could argue that being half-dead and plastered on rum was the only way to esteem our Lord’s bedside manner.”

This startled a real laugh out of Francis; surprising them both. “You sound more like Doctor Goodsir every day.”

“Can we speak of anything else tonight?” asked James after a few seconds. He did not think he could weep again so soon, but dwelling on one’s own mortality, however positively, tended to leech the spirit out of a man. “I simply…”

He could not finish the sentence, apparently, but judging by the sound Francis made, he understood this logic all too well. And Christ, what a bounty, to be held by someone who understood you in any shape or form. To be held at all after going for so many years without comfort, particularly physical touch. It had been so long.

_I have missed you like my own heart, Francis._

From here, the words would be utterly simple to say, if only he could gather his courage. He would not even need to look the man in the eyes as he said them.

But James did not speak, and the moment passed, and so when Francis cleared his throat, it was all too easy for the Irishman to voice his question.

“Got a particular story in mind?”

“Coningham,” James said after some consideration, oddly compelled to tell Francis a small part of the truth, even if he could not say the most important piece of it aloud. Not yet. “If – if you would hear it.”

Francis made a noise of assent, and began toying with a strand of his hair again. “Tell me.”

“Well. I, ah. Suppose it starts in Hertfordshire, then.”

 

##

 

When the darkness of polar night gave way to the usual greyish dusk, and the table in the Great Cabin had been long abandoned, Francis and James still lay entwined in a single bunk, hardly having slept.

Alone and undisturbed, they had talked for hours – about Hertfordshire and Bainbridge, and Coningham, and Barrow, and everything in between. Although Francis had said little by comparison, he could not express just how grateful he felt to hear James’s concerns finally spoken aloud. To be treated as a confidante and a balm instead of a distant nuisance. To know that his Second had finally put down some of his longest-held burdens, and had entrusted them to another person at last.

Now lying on his back and holding James close to his heart, stroking a hand through the back of his greasy scalp in absent contentment as James clutched him fast in return, the endless months of gnawing loneliness finally slackened in Francis’s chest.

“Think my voice is going now,” James rasped into the silence. Gravelly and weak, it broke like a boy’s across every other word.

“Seems so.”

James sighed and shifted in his arms; their legs tangled together beneath the blankets. “Talked too long.”

“False.” Glancing down, Francis jostled his Second slightly with both arms, as if trying to shake him from an unpleasant dream. “After tonight, I would hear every one of your stories thrice over.”

“Even China?”

The huff this prompted bordered on hysterical. “Even China.”

“Christ.” But James was laughing, too. “You really must have missed me, then.”

“Yes.” He had the sudden urge to press a kiss into the furrows on James’s forehead, and so he did, quickly and without fanfare, before the moment could pass unnoticed. “Very much.”

With a soft mournful sound, like the chirp of their resident mouser startled from sleep, James nodded his assent, and brushed two fingers through the side of Francis’s hair before settling back down against his chest, and pressing one ear close to his heart.

“So did I.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I had to add in a little smut! Enjoy.

When James appeared in the Great Cabin at the end of another long day, Francis was certain he knew what to expect, and so he made little comment other than to wave the man inside.

“Any news from _Erebus?_ ”

Normally, they would’ve sent messages through the stewards, but as Jopson was already off-duty and Bridgens likely the same, it seemed prudent to ask this question before making other assumptions.

“Nothing you have not heard before,” said James, as he shut the door, and tried to rub a bit of warmth back into his hands. “Except this: Henry and Des Voeux are now at loggerheads about a plain blue knitted scarf that recently emerged from the wash. Henry says his wife is the artisan; Charles insists the same. I assume it shall be pistols at dawn.”

“That is unfortunate.” Francis raised an eyebrow. “Lucky you have not been called in to solve the issue just yet.”

“We can but pray such luck continues. I confess I am neither feeling wise nor judicious this evening.” James cast a knowing look at the dark brazier in the corner. “Actually, it’s damned biting in here. Could we retire to your bunk to speak further?”

They were rationing the remaining coal heavily by this point, so the brazier had been cold for nearly three hours.

“Course.”

Once inside, Francis discarded his coat, boots, and changed into a nightshirt, and James did the same. They hopped up onto the bunk with a certain amount of ease; Francis lay back immediately before James crawled in beside him and pulled the blankets over them both.

“Probably should’ve left the layers on,” his Second remarked with a visible shiver as he tucked in close. “Can’t stay warm.”

“Well, you also have the terrible habit of standing around on the quarterdeck, in hopes that passersby will notice how striking you look in full uniform.”

“Very droll, Francis. I do not merely _stand around_ … anymore. Not since we got iced in.”

“Too damn cold for it,” Francis agreed, and muffled a yawn. Last he had seen of the thermometer, the mercury had been frozen solid. What a delightful omen leading up to a walk. “Might close my eyes for a bit, if that’s all right.”

“Go on, then.”

Lulled into relaxation by the warmth of James’s body against his, and the usual creaks and groans of the ship, Francis let his eyes flutter closed, and sank into a dream-filled sleep. He was not sure how long it lasted, only that he woke from a well-worn dream of Sophia and the hazy sensation of soft, purposeful friction against his hard cock to – to –

Although the groaning of the ice and the usual sounds of the ship had not changed, he now clutched James so close that their bodies were completely flush against each other, with his Second’s backside pressed to Francis's pubis.

_And James was grinding against him._

His breath, while still regular, had got slightly heavy from excitement, and the movements he made were so tiny Francis was honestly not sure if the man was asleep or not.

But Francis’s cock – having been sadly neglected for the majority of their time on the ice – had no way to distinguish between an accidental touch and one that was genuinely-meant. It stood tall under his remaining clothes, the head rubbing proud and hot against the sweet cleft of James’s arse through thin fabric.

 _Oh, god._ Francis could already feel the heat building in his stomach. His hand twitched helplessly against James’s rucked-up nightshirt, and he clenched his jaw against the wave of sensation that threatened to overwhelm him.

_Just wake him up. That’s all you’ve got to do._

“James,” he murmured, and rubbed that same hand up and down James's thinning yet still-muscled side, attempting to wake his Second without startling the bejesus out of him. “James. You’re – ”

This gentle, hesitant touch prompted a low animal whine in the back of James’s throat; this hitched noise went straight to Francis’s cock and throbbed through his entire body.

“James.”

His Second groaned softly, and pushed back even harder; Francis gasped and thrust up before he could think, and within a minute he was matching James’s movements, gently rocking to and fro against that beautiful arse, losing himself in the friction of fabric against fabric and fabric catching skin and the promise of what lay underneath. The hand that had been poised on James’s hip traveled slowly downwards to grasp at one corner of the rucked-up nightshirt, eliciting another soft moan.

Surely there was nothing wrong in this. Even dreaming, James clearly needed relief, and Francis was only a man. They could give each other this much in the still of the night.

Each new thrust drew out a deeper frisson of delight. Tentatively, Francis's left hand traveled lower, fingers now hovering across the crease of James’s leg as they moved quietly together. And now – oh, Christ – Francis could feel his own resolution bearing down on him like a freight train. Suddenly this small amount of contact was not remotely enough: he wanted to grasp James’s cock and work the man over the edge with purpose and vigor. He wanted to feel his Second buck and squirm beneath him in earnest – have him spill against the sheets until there was nothing left to give.

And he wanted James to know that he had done it.

“James,” he whispered again, letting his fingers trail ever lower down a soft inner thigh, lightly caressing the man’s chest with the other. “Here you are, hm?”

Shuddering, James groaned aloud, and his breathing sped up further. “Oh. Oh, Francis!”

He was awake.

In answer, Francis leaned forward and mouthed at James’s neck, clumsy with desire; his Second arched backwards with a squeak and a stutter of breath as Francis’s tongue licked a soft path down the tense muscles here.

“ _Francis_.”

“Let me finish you,” Francis rasped into his ear, nibbling softly at the lobe here, and then back down his neck. “Y'feel so good, James.”

James made a high-pitched, frenzied sound.

Reaching beneath his nightshirt, Francis’s palm touched soft wiry curls and then the velvet-smooth swelling of James’s cock: hot to the touch, twitching, and dripping wet with desire. When his fist closed loosely around this most intimate part of James, the _Erebus_ Captain lost his rhythm and flung himself back into Francis’s body with a hiss of breath.

“Goddamn. _Yes._ ”

Francis could not find words for how incredible this was; to hold a beautiful man in his arms, feel him grinding back into his hard cock and feel how excited that man got in return. Jesus fucking Christ, it was gorgeous, James was gorgeous; Francis wanted this moment to last for a thousand years.

A familiar tug behind his stones made him startle and yelp, tightening his grip around the base of James’s cock as he pulled relentlessly faster; James shivered in his arms, arching backwards a final time.

“Fuck,” was the only word his Second whispered. “Fuck. _Fuck!_ ”

Hot wet seed spurted out over Francis’s fingers like water from a pump, and that was it: Francis grunted like a stuck pig, thrust up once or twice more, and spilled against their nightshirts, gasping for breath as he rutted against the small of James’s arse, painting the fabric and the delicate skin beneath with a long shot of white.

“Yes.” James was still breathless, writhing shamelessly against him. “Don’t – don’t stop.”

Dazed, Francis was certain he had misheard. Luckily, within an instant, his Second’s left hand had closed around his fist, directing him to frig hard and fast for several minutes, until James trembled in his arms a second time, spurting out over both their hands.

Once James let go, and sagged backwards in a boneless slump, Francis felt it was safe to do the same, and wiped his hand on his nightshirt. They lay quietly together before James finally cleared his throat, and attempted to turn over.

“Ouch!” protested Francis through a laugh, as his Second accidentally elbowed him in the shoulder. “Watch your bloody wings!”

James just smirked in a knowing way, eyes dark as he rolled onto his left side and met Francis’s unamused gaze. “The only fact I gleaned from that exclamation was that I am become a beautiful tall bird.”

“Well, you’ve got the freakish long legs of a wild heron,” said Francis with a roll of his eyes. “So I think it suits you.”

This taunt was only slightly undermined by the fact that he had grown hard again under James’s renewed scrutiny.

“Mm,” was all James said, wry and already grinning. “Do you know how some herons mate, dear Francis?”

It should not have been this thrilling to hear such a strange combination of words on his Second’s lips.

“I have not had the pleasure of such specific learnings, no.”

“All the better to show you, then.” And James slid up onto one elbow, then just as quickly flung back the blankets and got a knee on either side of Francis’s bare calves. “First, they erect their crest, and make prolonged moaning calls.”

Francis’s eyebrows soared up and his mouth dropped open in surprise.

Pushing up the tail of his nightshirt past his hips, James exposed Francis’s cock to the cool air, pursed his mouth as if this sight delighted him to no end, and dropped down to his elbows.

“Next, they bend the neck, and snap their bills, very loudly.” Nuzzling down into the soft trail of hair that dusted Francis’s stomach, then drawing up with a sharp inhale, James bit down twice at empty air, causing Francis’s hips to buck upwards first in alarm and then in a heated rush of anticipation.

“Stop prattling on about bloody birds, James,” he demanded through clenched teeth. "Christ."

“You would not have your beautiful heron perform for you? Showcase such colorful plumage?”

Although the man batted his eyes in a very silly way as he settled down between Francis’s legs, this ridiculous gesture still sent another rush of desperation deep into Francis’s belly.

“I would have your mouth on me,” Francis answered, quiet. "Now."

One corner of James’s mouth twitched up. “That can be arranged.”

This time, he bent his head in earnest, causing Francis to swear and cover his mouth with a trembling hand.


End file.
